


mobbin' on the low

by distira



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are guys who get paid to talk about football and there are guys who get paid to play football, and Marshawn is one of the guys who gets paid to play football.  He prefers to let the suits do the talking, since it's all most of them have left.  Marshawn doesn't picture himself following in their footsteps once he retires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mobbin' on the low

**Author's Note:**

> this came about because i saw [this](http://pigeonsandplanes.com/2013/09/drake-lyrics-text/) and instantly thought, "what if marshawn lynch did this except in his press conferences????" and then [nahco3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3) enabled me. needless to say, this is basically crackfic. of course this is what i break my fic-writing hiatus for.
> 
> canon divergence re: press conferences, also i was not about to predict the superbowl result, also handwaving about geographical things like when the seahawks were in seattle vs when they were in arizona just go with it

The thing is that Marshawn doesn't _dislike_ talking. He talks plenty, to his mom, to his teammates -- well, mostly to Russell, but that's because Richard talks enough for both of them -- and he talked plenty in college, enough to get most of the way to his degree. 

It's just that Marshawn plays football. There are guys who get paid to talk about football and there are guys who get paid to play football, and Marshawn is one of the guys who gets paid to play football. He prefers to let the suits do the talking, since it's all most of them have left. Marshawn doesn't picture himself following in their footsteps once he retires. 

 

Media day is a fucking circus. 

Marshawn shows up on time, sits down, pulls his phone out and tweets, _I'm here so I don't get fined. $$ should go 2 my foundation not the NFL._

He doesn't really pay attention once they start actually asking questions. He folds his hands together and looks down, and when there's a lull, he looks up and says, "Ask yourself, how do we match up now?" 

It's more words than he's strung together for the press in a few months. He grins. 

"Do you mean, how you and the Patriots match up?" one of the suits in the front asks. 

Marshawn shrugs. 

 

"Fucking shit, Shawn," Richard says. They're in Marshawn's car, his Lambo, and Richard is changing the radio station halfway into every song. "That's the most you've said in how long?" 

Marshawn laughs. "Yeah, well. Not all of us gotta run our mouths about Kraft and Goodell." 

"Whatever, the whole damn league knows they're in bed with each other," Richard tells him. He stops skipping songs for a second and nods along to Taylor Swift, pokes his tongue in his cheek and pantomimes giving a blowjob. Marshawn groans, reaches over and pushes his face towards the window. 

"Fuck off, I didn't need to picture that," he says, turning onto Richard's street. "Ay, you sure you don't wanna come shoot around?" 

"Yeah, man, I'm good," Richard says. He unbuckles his seatbelt before Marshawn stops the car. "That's your thing with Russ, don't front." 

Marshawn shrugs. "Open invite." He unlocks the doors, and Richard climbs out of the Lambo. "Later, man." 

Richard smacks the door of the Lambo as he closes it, so Marshawn revs the engine more than he needs to as he drives off. 

 

Russell's already at Marshawn's house when he pulls in, so he leaves the car in the driveway and heads out back to where he's got a basketball hoop set up. Russell's wearing Wisconson sweats and a Seahawks sweatshirt, and he tosses Marshawn the basketball once Marshawn's close enough. 

"Hey, Money," he says. He's sweating. 

"You run here or something?" Marshawn asks, dribbling the basketball as he gets closer. "You sweating like Richard shit talking you to ESPN or something." 

"Nah, no, I'm parked out front," Russell says, flipping Marshawn off. Marshawn turns his speed on, makes a move around Russell, hits the easy layup. "Oh, it's like that?" Russell calls. "Playing already? Starting without me? Think that's called cheating, Lynch." 

Marshawn shrugs, tosses Russell the ball. "Thought you had to deflate the ball for it to count as cheating these days." 

Russell laughs, loud, caught off guard. "Alright," he shakes his head. "Got me there." 

They shoot around for a while and it's easy, relaxed. They trash talk a little, not like Richard can but still, Russ can't hit a three to save his life, Marshawn can't let him get away with it. They don't play much D, not until Russell misses his third in a row and Marshawn jumps in front of him, hands up. 

"What's this, you gonna declare for the NBA draft this year?" Russell laughs. He lets his shot go and it sails over Marshawn, wide again. 

"Nah, just tryna give you an excuse for your shitty threes," Marshawn says, casual. "'Sides, you can't say shit, you fucked off to spring training in Arizona, I'm not the one lining up to leave." 

"Hey," Russell says, jogging after the ball, which is starting to roll towards the house. "I'm here, man. I'm not going anywhere." He picks up the ball and jogs back. He's not really breathing hard but he's still sweating like he's trying to make weight. "You were in Oakland, anyway." 

"Closer to here than Arizona," Marshawn points out. Russell offers him the ball. "Nah, try one more, I gotta call my mom soon." He calls her every few days, same time every afternoon. Marshawn likes routines. 

Russ jogs backwards and takes a few dribbles, lines himself up. The ball sails through the hoop and he lands from his jump outside the three-point line. "Swish!" he crows. 

"Proud of you," Marshawn grins. "Hey, you wanna chill while I talk to mom? I was thinking of hitting Applebee's for dinner." 

Russell nods, smiles. "Yeah, I can swing that." 

 

Marshawn knows it might be his last season in Seattle. He hopes it isn't, because Seattle's a cool city, and he's a lot closer to Oakland than he was in Buffalo, which is nice. He likes his team, likes his coach, Pete's a good guy, understands where Marshawn's at without Marshawn having to tell him mostly, and he doesn't want to have to rebuild that if he can help it. 

He understands the game of it though, not football but the NFL, and he knows management has to lock down Russell in the offseason. Russell's the franchise; Marshawn's a great player, he knows it and management knows it, but he isn't a franchise player. He dug that hole for himself when he stopped taking questions at press conferences-- he dug that hole when he got arrested in Buffalo, really, but he sealed the deal when he stopped taking questions. He's cool with it, he'd rather not say anything to the media than have to show up for every interview, do all the extra advertising hoops they have Russell jump through. 

He wants to win again if it's gonna be his last season here. He wants to win with Pete on the sideline, Richard yelling into the cameras, Russell smiling at him like he's the goddamn trophy. He figures he deserves that, if he has to leave. He'll take that deal. 

 

Sideline reporters are at practice when Marshawn gets onto the field. Jeff, one of their PR guys, meets Marshawn before Marshawn can avoid them. 

"Just a few questions," Jeff tells him, steering Marshawn towards Michael Robinson. Marshawn grumbles a little but he goes, because Michael's his teammate even if he's not on the field anymore. 

"What's up, you feeling good, man?" Michael asks. 

Marshawn nods at him. "Nobody really likes us except us," he says. 

Michael laughs. "Yeah?" 

Marshawn raises his eyebrows. "All I need is the squad, so that's what's up." 

"Ain't that the truth," Michael says, and claps Marshawn on the shoulder. "I got you, man, go rip some heads off." 

Marshawn punches him lightly on the shoulder and jogs onto the field. 

 

Playing with Russell is like-- 

Trent and Ryan weren't bad, back in Buffalo, but they can't compare. Nothing can, really, because Russell's smart, he knows what Marshawn's doing before he even does it. They connect. They make it happen. Marshawn just likes to play football, but Russell reads the game like it's a treasure map and Marshawn marks the spot. 

They're lined up and it's just practice, but Russell gets the snap and hands the ball off, and Marshawn tears off like it's the SuperBowl already. 

His team cheers for him like it's the SuperBowl, too, once he's in the endzone, slamming the ball down. He grabs his dick through his pants with one hand, raises the other towards the sky, and dances. 

"Get the fuck back on your line, we all know how big your dick is," Richard yells at him. 

"Gotta make sure," Marshawn yells back. "Since they won't let me show it off on TV anymore." 

"That explain the gold cleats, too?" Russell asks, picking the football up from the turf. 

"Bought 'em, gotta wear 'em," Marshawn says, because his mom raised him right, he doesn't waste money. He donates it and he pays his fines and he buys himself nice cleats and cars and there's no point in having those things if he doesn't use them. 

Russell nods, tugs on Marshawn's helmet as they head back towards the huddle. "Too bad you aren't wearing the grill to match." 

"NFL hasn't said shit about the grill yet," Marshawn leers.

"As long as it's the one that says Seahawks on it," Russell allows. 

"For sure," Marshawn says. "You got it."

"You're a generous man," Russell tells him. 

Marshawn shrugs, "Let's play some ball, Three," and Russell lets him get away with it. Russell lets him get away with a lot. Marshawn stopped trying to figure out why a long time ago. 

 

Richard picks up on it first. Richard went to Stanford, he's a smart guy. Marshawn had figured he'd get it first. Richard had figured out Marshawn had a thing for Russell like, two years ago, so it's not like Richard figuring out Marshawn's games is anything new. 

"Let me just read you something I found online," Richard says, his voice loud through Marshawn's phone's speakers. 

"'M listening," Marshawn says. He's still in bed, because it's 8am and they don't have practice until the afternoon. He rolls over, balances the phone on his cheekbone, and yawns. 

"Someone asked you, what do you think about Deflategate, and you answered, "My actions been louder than my words," Richard says. He sounds like Marshawn's agent, a little. "Someone else asked you if Russ has ever messed with the footballs before the game and you said the same thing. You said the same thing like, six times." 

"Yeah," Marshawn agrees. "I did. Same as the last few press things. Give 'em the same answer for everything and they get bored pretty quick." 

"Right, no, that's not what I'm pointing out," Richard says. "I'm pointing out that you've been feeding Drake lyrics to the press for like, three interviews in a row." 

Marshawn laughs. It's raspy, because Richard woke him up, but it's from his belly. It takes him a minute to get it together. "Yeah, man, you got me. You the first one." 

"Of course I am, Shawn," Richard tells him. "I'm a fucking genius." 

He hangs up before Marshawn can answer, so Marshawn pulls up Twitter on his phone. _@RSherman_25 Too smart for your own good_ , and then, _@RSherman_25 Started not to give a fuck and stopped fearing the consequences_.

 

The game is two days away when Russell knocks on Marshawn's hotel room door. 

Marshawn's channel surfing, not really paying attention to much, just trying to get himself tired enough to sleep even though it's only 10pm, and he doesn't really feel like getting up. "Sup," he says, holding the door open with his hip. 

"Can I come in?" Russell asks. 

"Yeah, 'kay," Marshawn says, stepping back into the room. Russell follows him, lets the door click shut. 

Marshawn lies back down on his bed. Russell sits on the armchair and watches Marshawn flip through a TLC show and an episode of SVU. Marshawn gives him a minute, but then he hits mute on the TV and raises his eyebrows. 

"You good?" he asks. 

"Yeah, just wanted to chill," Russell says. He's staring at the TV even though there's no sound. 

They sit quietly, watching the silent TV for a while. Marshawn doesn't mind being quiet, not with the right people. Some people are loud people -- not in volume, maybe, but just their personalities. Richard is loud even when he's quiet. Marshawn doesn't like quiet around Richard, because that means something's wrong. Russell is quiet even when he's loud, so Marshawn doesn't mind not saying anything. 

After a while, Russell stretches in the chair. His back pops a few times. 

"There's room up here, don't fuck yourself up before the game," Marshawn says, pointing at the empty half of a bed. He's a big dude but he doesn't take up a whole king size by himself. 

"Okay," Russell says. He climbs up next to Marshawn and grabs a pillow. "So, two days." 

Marshawn hums. "Yeah," he says. "Looks like it." 

"I want you to stay," Russell tells him. Marshawn makes himself look at Russell. He's too earnest for his own good, his face too open. "I'll take the pay cut for you to stay, if that'll free up space." 

"No," Marshawn says instantly. "Nah, you don't have to. Don't. You worked hard, you earned this. Take the money. This your team." 

"Hey," Russell says. "It's your team too. We want you here." He coughs. "I want you here." 

Marshawn reaches out, grabs Russell's forearm. His skin is warm, softer than Marshawn thought it might be. "This is a good thing," he says. "Good team, good city. I like it here. But yo, this ain't the Spurs, you ain't Tim Duncan. You do that, people start talking. People start asking me more questions I don't want to answer, and people start asking you questions maybe you don’t have the answer to." 

"I would, though," Russell says, and he believes it, Marshawn can see it in his face. Russell can't lie for shit, or maybe Marshawn just has a read on him. 

"Look," Marshawn tells him. "If the negotiations happen and I get to stay, that'd be great. But if they don't work out and I leave-- don't fuck it up, okay? Put the martyr complex away. You let me go if that happens, and then maybe this-- y'know. Maybe this can happen, too." He rubs his thumb over the soft underside of Russell's arm. 

"Oh," Russell says. "Oh." 

"Yeah," Marshawn says. He lets go of Russell. "We good?" 

"'Course," Russell says. "We're good." 

 

The day before the SuperBowl, Marshawn answers every question with, "Do we look like we stressin'?" 

 

There's no press in the locker room right before the game. Marshawn pops his grill in, keeps his headphones on until Russell comes over and sits next to him. 

"The Seahawks one?" Russell asks, pointing at his own teeth. Marshawn smiles, pulls his lips back so Russell can read the grill. 

"You asked," he says. 

"Yeah," Russell nods. "Gonna ask you to take a few handoffs for TD's tonight, you gonna come through on that too?" 

"Your wish, my command," Marshawn says. "This our shit." 

"Best fucking team," Richard throws in as he walks past them. "That's us, baby, that's us." 

Russell gets up, claps Marshawn on the shoulder. "We got a game to win, you and me." 

 

The problem with playing in the SuperBowl is that there are a lot of questions afterwards. 

"How does it feel?" the suits ask. 

"Started from the bottom," Marshawn shrugs. This is when everyone else will get it, he thinks. "Now my whole team fuckin' here."

"Will you be staying in Seattle next season?" the suits ask. 

"I'm in it for the long haul," Marshawn answers, which his agent will probably crucify him for later. 

Russell texts him the YouTube link while they're all changing and showering-- someone's already got the interview up online. _this mean you're staying or this you fucking with reporters?_

 

There's a moment, on the field. It's the end of the first quarter, and Marshawn's been rushing for most of the game, but that's not the play call on this one. He takes off running once Russell gets the snap, makes his turn, shakes his coverage-- Russell throws him a perfect ball, because he always does, and Marshawn pulls it down, only needs to cover fifteen yards for the touchdown. He holds the ball up, turns around real slow, and points at Russell, who's looking at him like they're the only two guys on the field, like the game's over and they've won, but it's only gonna be 7-7 if they get the extra point. It's just the beginning. 

Marshawn drops the ball and heads for the sideline nodding violently, celebrating. 

He's good at living in the moment.


End file.
